The Lost Relic

Chapter Sixty-Four

The pickaxe blade was just beginning its downward arc when a spattering halo of red erupted from the side of Spartak Gourko’s head. He twisted away with a scream of pain and rage. The pickaxe dropped from his hands and hit the concrete with a clang that echoed through the empty building.

As Gourko clasped a hand to the fleshy tatters where his right ear had been, another silenced shot caught him in the chest, spun him and slammed him into the concrete pillar. His knees buckled and he collapsed into a heap.

The tall man called Maxim gaped down at his fallen leader, raised his gun and then was sent sprawling down on his back as a third shot punched through his body.

The men holding Ben down scattered. Ben twisted to see where the shots were coming from. He couldn’t see anyone – but the hidden shooter could certainly see them. Switching from single shots to burst fire, the sniper took down another of Gourko’s crew as the man went for his weapon. A triple burst hammered into the front of the parked Mitsubishi and blew out its lights and windscreen. Then another, and the bonnet lid popped open and water and coolant showered the concrete floor.

Gourko’s body lay inert. As his men fled for the exit, one of them spun round, returning fire – then jerked and fell back with a third eye-socket punched through the middle of his forehead.

Ben was up on his feet. Hearing soft footsteps behind him, he whirled around to see the shooter walking towards him across the factory floor, holding a large black assault rifle in gloved hands. The Heckler & Koch G36 rifle was a weapon Ben would have expected to see in a military battle-zone, not in the suburbs of Rome. It had a hundred-round drum magazine, laser sights and a folding bipod. A highly formidable tool – and it was pretty clear from what had just happened that the shooter knew exactly how to handle it.

The shooter approached a few more steps, the gun held tight to his shoulder, sweeping its muzzle cautiously from side to side. He was wearing a black motorcycle jacket, jeans and high-lace combat boots. The visor of his black baseball cap was pulled down low, obscuring his face. Then their eyes met, and the shooter gave a dry smile.

Ben blinked. It wasn’t a he. It was Darcey Kane.

‘Glad I stopped by?’ she said, stepping over Gourko’s body. Ben hid his amazement. ‘I had everything under control.’

‘Oh, I could see you were right on top of things. Sorry for messing up your plans. Now, we’re a little rushed, so if you’d like to come with me—’

‘Where?’ Ben said. ‘Back to jail? No, thanks.’

She pointed the assault rifle at him. Her gloved finger was on the trigger. ‘Let’s move, Major.’

‘You can call me Ben,’ he said, looking down the barrel. ‘That’s nice, but maybe we can have this conversation in the car?’

‘Hold on.’ Ben stepped over to the plastic chair over which Gourko’s jacket was draped. He fished in the side pocket, slowly drew out a phone and held it between forefinger and thumb so she could see it wasn’t a gun or a grenade. He dropped it in the pocket of his blue prison overalls. ‘Seeing as you chased them away before I could find out much.’

‘They’ll be back,’ she said. ‘Move it.’

With the weapon trained closely on him, Darcey led him quickly back across the factory space, past an old delivery lorry and out through a rear entrance. Hidden among a tangle of bushes and nettles at the other side of the building was a battered Ford saloon van. Darcey tossed Ben the keys. ‘You drive. So I can keep an eye on you.’

‘What, in my socks?’

‘Just cope.’

Pistol shots rang out across the overgrown factory fore-court. A bullet whanged off the wall nearby. Gourko’s remaining men had regrouped. They were moving from cover to cover, shooting as they advanced. Ben climbed in behind the wheel of the Ford and fired up the engine. Darcey swung her rifle towards the Russians and drove them into retreat with a long, rattling blast before diving into the back seat.

‘Go!’ she shouted, but Ben was already there. The van’s wheels spun as it took off out of the bushes and went skidding across the cracked concrete. More pistol shots popped in their wake as Ben tore through the gates and sped away.

After a couple of kilometres, Darcey said, ‘You can slow down now. Keep it at the limit.’

Ben glanced in the mirror. She was holding the HK steady. ‘You’re taking a chance,’ he said. ‘I could crash this thing.’

‘Yeah, I’ve seen your driving. Maybe I’ll just have to shoot you.’

‘Funny,’ Ben said. ‘I was just thinking the same about you.’

‘You had your chance. Fluffed it.’

‘There’s always a next time.’

‘Dream on.’

‘Where are we going?’ he asked her.

‘Somewhere we can get you out of those overalls. Anyone would think you were an escaped prisoner.’

She directed him for another few kilometres, then said, ‘OK, turn in here.’

They were out of the city now, and coming into thickly wooded countryside. The track she was taking them onto led to a secluded picnic area, with a small car park and some wooden tables and benches. The place was empty. Ben parked up in the shade of the trees, turned off the engine and slowly got out of the van. Darcey climbed out with the rifle dangling loosely at her side.

‘It’s peaceful here,’ Ben said, looking around him. ‘My kind of place. Somehow I thought you were taking me somewhere with bars in the windows.’

Darcey nodded. ‘I could have. But I thought we should consider other options.’

‘Like what?’

Darcey jerked open the van’s back door, reached inside and hauled out a military black canvas holdall. She tossed it down at his feet, motioned for him to open it.

‘Boonzie sends his regards,’ she said.

He said nothing, just stared at her for a moment; then dropped into a crouch and drew back the holdall’s zipper.

The bag was empty apart from a spare hundred-round drum magazine for Darcey’s G36 rifle and a military holster containing a well-worn, well-maintained and fully loaded 9mm Browning Hi-Power pistol. ‘Take it,’ she said.

Ben looked up at Darcey in confusion. ‘What is this?’ was all he could say.

‘Peace of mind,’ she said simply.

Ben thought back to the afternoon he’d spent with the Scotsman, putting up the greenhouse. It seemed a lifetime ago. I have my peace of mind, if you know what I mean, Boonzie had said. Ben glanced at the assault rifle in Darcey’s hands, and back down at the Browning. Peace of mind, indeed. He wasn’t even going to ask where the Scotsman had got hold of a piece of front-line kit like the G36.

‘Came in handy, didn’t it?’ Darcey said.

Ben picked up the pistol and stuffed it into the pocket of his prison overalls, at a loss for words.

‘Confused?’ She smiled, laid the rifle across the Ford’s scuffed bonnet, leaned against the wing and took off her shooting gloves.

‘Pretty much.’

‘I wasn’t always with SOCA. I used to be in CO19.’

Ben began to get it. ‘That means you did some training in Hereford.’

‘And Boonzie McCulloch was my instructor,’ Darcey said. ‘He was the best. I never forgot him. So imagine my surprise when it turned out he was the reason you were in Italy in the first place. I took a little trip out to his place in Campo Basso yesterday. When I told him I was assigned to bring you in, he nearly blew my head off. But then I told him some other things I’d found out more recently. After that, he couldn’t do enough to help me.’

‘Things like what?’ Ben asked.

‘Like the fact that I know you didn’t shoot Urbano Tassoni.’