The Sacred Sword

Chapter Sixty-Five

Ben knew exactly who he was dealing with. Brown had provided detailed profiles on Penrose Lucas’s hired guns. The big guy in the leather coat was Terry Grinnall. Thirty-six years old. Ex British Army, but he’d only followed that career long enough to learn that he could kill more people, with greater impunity and for a lot more pay, as a private soldier. Bosnia, Afghanistan, Africa, the usual trail of blood and money. Somewhere along it he’d encountered former Para, Steve Cutter.

But the trail ended here. Ben dragged Grinnall inside the changing room and slammed the door shut with his foot. He grappled the man to the floor, keeping his left arm locked around his throat and his right hand over his mouth.

Grinnall was as strong as he was heavy. He flailed out with his fists and feet and tried to smash Ben in the face with the back of his head and bite his hand. Ben squeezed harder, flattening his windpipe shut. Grinnall bucked and thrashed like a wild man.

In just a few more seconds, Cutter would be out of the pool, and Ben would have problems if he faced having to deal with them both at once. Cutter was smaller and less powerful, but he was also smarter and more dangerous. Ben had seen enough to know that as he’d watched them move through the villa.

He also knew that he’d encountered the guy once before.

Just seconds. But Grinnall had only a few seconds, too.

Or maybe not. Just when Ben thought Grinnall was beginning to lose consciousness, the man suddenly gave a violent buck that broke Ben’s grip on him. He twisted round and flung a vicious punch at the side of Ben’s head. Ben blocked it — only just.

The next few instants were a life or death struggle for both of them. A powerful knee flew up and caught Ben in the stomach, almost knocking the wind out of him. Ben drove the heel of his hand into Grinnall’s chin, slamming his head down hard with a crack against the tiled floor. Grinnall reached up with both hands clawed, going for Ben’s eyes.

And Ben drew the Fairbairn-Sykes commando dagger from his leg sheath and punched its slender tip downwards through the leather coat and into Grinnall’s heart. Clapped his hand over the man’s mouth to stifle the terrible sucking gasp that people made when a cold steel blade penetrated deep inside their body. He stabbed the knife in again, then again, feeling the razor-sharp edges grind against bone as they parted Grinnall’s ribs on their way through.

Grinnall’s eyes rolled back and his body went limp. Ben clambered painfully to his feet. He plucked out the knife and wiped it quickly on the dead man’s trouser leg, slipped it back into his sheath. Bundled the heavy corpse into the shower cubicle, then opened the changing room door a crack and peered cautiously out.

Straining every muscle with a groan of effort, Cutter heaved the dead-weight of the holdall out of the water and shoved it up onto the edge of the pool. He hauled himself up and collapsed next to the soaking wet bag, gasping and dripping water everywhere. The money! He fumbled for the holdall’s zipper and ripped it open. The stacks of notes inside were completely sodden. He moaned in despair.

‘Terry!’ he yelled, suddenly realising that Grinnall wasn’t there.

‘Terry’s in the shower right now,’ Ben said.

Cutter looked up and his eyes widened, then narrowed into slits. He looked like what he was, cornered and deadly. Ben kept the silenced Browning Hi-Power aimed squarely at his head as he approached. The pistol had come courtesy of the Trimble Group, along with the commando dagger and certain other mission-specific items Ben had brought with him to Capri.

‘I know you,’ Cutter said, watching every step.

‘I know you, too,’ Ben said. ‘Little Denton vicarage, the night my friends died. You were making an unscheduled pick-up. And I never forget a voice.’

‘Hope.’

‘That’s me.’

‘Mills?’

‘Took up high-diving,’ Ben said. ‘You’re the last.’

Cutter gave a bitter grin. ‘There you go. Don’t suppose I’ll ever know where the rest of that cash was, will I?’

‘You weren’t a bad soldier once, Steve. You went a long way. Should never have quit the regiment.’

‘No future in it.’

‘Not much future in killing my friends, either,’ Ben said.

‘You going to shoot me, then?’

‘It’d make it easier for me if you went for that Glock,’ Ben said, nodding towards the pistol in Cutter’s belt.

‘It’s full of water,’ Cutter said.

‘You can fire a Glock underwater,’ Ben said. ‘You should know that.’

There was silence for a moment, just the steady tap-tap of droplets splashing down from Cutter’s clothes and hair onto the wet poolside tiles and the low hum of the heaters.

‘Right then,’ Cutter sighed. He shrugged, as if to say, ‘What the hell.’ And then his hand flashed down to the butt of the Glock.

The Hi-Power spat twice. The sound echoed around the swimming pool.

Cutter’s hand curled loosely around the grip of his pistol. Then he keeled over sideways and rolled into the water with a splash.

Ben left the building. He retrieved his kit bag from the shadows of the walkway where he’d left it. Another piece of equipment that had been on his requirements list, along with what was inside. He slung the webbing strap over his shoulder and went looking for Penrose Lucas.

As he re-entered the villa, he could smell smoke.