Midnight Runner - Jack Higgins [95]
"What do you want?" Newton's voice was harsh.
"That, for a starter." Dillon reached inside and took the shotgun, which he placed on the roof. "Now yours," he told Cook. "You must have something." Cook hesitated, then took a Smith & Wesson .38 from an inside pocket and offered it butt first. "Strange how people are always giving me guns," Dillon said.
"Can we go now?" Newton asked.
"Not until you tell me what Dauncey intended. What was going to happen to me? A bullet in the head and into the Thames?"
"No, it wasn't like that."
Dillon yanked open the door and put the muzzle of the Walther against Newton's knee. "As I said, this is silenced, so no one will hear a thing while I kneecap you. As you may know, I was IRA for years, so putting you on sticks doesn't give me a problem."
"No, not that. I'll tell you. Dauncey said the Countess wanted us to jump you, sling you in the back of the van, and drive you down to Dauncey Place. He was very specific. She wanted you in one piece."
"There, that wasn't so hard, was it?" Dillon shut the door and stood back. "If you two were SAS, then God help the country. I'd say you need a different line of work." He fired into the front offside tire, which collapsed at once. "I'll just make it the one. Changing it will give you something to do. Please give Dauncey my best. Tell him I'll see him soon."
He picked the shotgun and the revolver off the roof, went to the Mini Cooper, and drove away. Newton got out. "All right, let's change the bloody tire."
"What about Dauncey?"
"He can go fuck himself. But I'll call him anyway. I'd like to think he can sort that bastard out if he visits them."
"Then what do we do?"
"You heard the man. Find a different line of work."
Dillon parked the Mini Cooper outside the cottage, went in and straight upstairs. He wasn't angry, but remarkably cool. It was no longer a question of letting it go, as Ferguson and the others had wanted, even Billy. He knew one thing with absolute certainty: Kate Rashid would never let it go, not where he was concerned.
But for the moment, he was bushed, the effects of the last few days rolling up on him, and that would never do. He needed to be at his best. He punched the security system on by the front door, went up to his bedroom, and undressed. He put the silenced Walther on the small table beside the bed, got in, and left the lights on. In spite of that, he immediately plunged into a profound sleep.
A while later, he came awake with a start, checked his watch, and found that it was half past three. He felt fine, clear-headed, his brain sharp. He got up, pulled on his black cords, then put on the titanium waistcoat, the shirt over it, and finally the flying jacket. He found an old and favorite white scarf to finish things off, then went downstairs and opened the secret door again. He took out the Colt .25 and checked it. A lightweight weapon, but not with the hollow point cartridges with which it was loaded.
He replaced it in the ankle holster, pulled up his trouser leg, and strapped the holster in place just above the top of the left jump boot. He already had the silenced Walther under his left arm, and now he took out the other Walther and slipped it into his belt against the small of his back.
He went and found his silver cigarette case, filled it from a box, slipped it into his inside right pocket, and also found his old Zippo lighter. All this he had done calmly and meticulously. It was like preparing for war.
There was a mirror in the hall by the door. He took a cigarette from his case, lit it, and smiled at himself.
"Well, here we go again, me old son," he said, and left.
I n the library at Dauncey Place, Kate Rashid sat by the great fireplace, a black Doberman called Carl