Matthew Dunn - Slingshot

“No. Maximum damage has been done. The others are of no use to me now.”

Schreiber replaced the handset and interlinked his fingers, deep in thought. By killing Betty Mayne, he’d sent a powerful warning to Will Cochrane. In similar situations, most men would back down from pursuing him. He wondered if Cochrane was such a man.

The young Dutch police officer looked nervous as he entered Will’s hospital room in Eindhoven’s Catharina Ziekenhuis hospital. He extended his arm. In his hand was a cell phone. “Sir, you have a call. Urgent.”

Will grimaced in pain as he sat up in bed. In rooms close to him were Roger, Laith, Adam, Mark, and Mikhail. No one else was allowed into the ward except nurses, doctors, and armed Dutch cops. “Who is it?”

“I’m not permitted to know. My commanding officer ordered me to bring the phone to you.”

Will nodded. “I need some privacy.”

The cop hesitated, seemed unsure what to do, then left the room.

Will held the phone to his face. “Yes?”

He listened to Alistair speak for ten minutes, though it felt like only ten seconds. When the call ended, his head was spinning, images racing through his mind. He felt disbelief, nausea, anger, and overwhelming grief.

Unable to get hold of Will, Alfie had called his Controller to relay devastating news.

Betty was dead.

Will stared at the hospital equipment by his bed, though nothing registered. He was motionless, felt as if he’d been stunned by an almighty sucker punch.

A punch that had been delivered with brilliant precision by Colonel Kurt Schreiber.

Schreiber had known how Will had reacted to the perceived threat to his sister. The former Stasi officer had watched him eschew bringing in hired guns to protect Sarah, in favor of entrusting her safety to people who were considerably older and had wisdom and a wealth of experience, meaning they meant something to him. Schreiber had ascertained their identities and had singled out Betty as the perfect target, knowing that her death would cause Will to be debilitated with overwhelming guilt. He’d also ensured that she was murdered in front of his sister, whom Schreiber could easily have killed but instead kept alive so that she could understand that Will’s line of work caused those around him to be sacrificed.

Schreiber had killed Betty, and no doubt he had also killed Will’s relationship with his last remaining family.

Kurt Schreiber had completely outsmarted Will Cochrane.

You both need to get back to the military hospital as soon as this is done.” Though his tone was stern, Patrick’s expression held concern and compassion as he looked at Will and Roger. They’d been flown to the States on a medical flight. The rest of the team was still recuperating in Holland.

Roger was in a wheelchair. The doctors had advised him that it would be weeks before he could get out of it, and even then he’d need several months of further treatment. Will’s injury had done less damage, though he was on crutches and would subsequently need a walking stick for a month or two. But nothing was going to stop them from being here.

The CIA Director of Intelligence moved around the boardroom within CIA headquarters, picked up a phone, and glanced at Patrick. “You guys ready?”

Patrick smiled as he looked at his men. “You bet we are.”

The director pressed numbers, held the handset to his mouth, and muttered, “Grab the bastards from their offices. Do it fast. Make sure we have a minimum of eight guards outside the boardroom to take them away after it’s done.” He replaced the handset. “They’re on their way.”

Five minutes later, Tibor, Damien, Lawrence, and Marcus were escorted into the room by burly security men. The Flintlock officers’ expensive suits were ruffled, their faces flushed. Tibor looked angrily at the director. “What the hell’s going on?”

“Sit down and shut up!”

The men were forced into seats, facing Will and Roger across the table. The director and Patrick sat next to the Spartan Section operatives.

Like Roger, Will was wearing an expensive suit. It had been agonizing to get into it, but he wanted to look the part. He lifted one of his crutches and slammed it down on the table with sufficient force to make the Flintlock officers flinch. “My name is Will Cochrane. It doesn’t bother me to share that information with you, because where you’re going you’re not going to have a soul to talk to for the rest of your lives. What does bother me is that your actions killed a loved one, and that you tried to have me killed in order to cover up the fact that you sold out Yevtushenko’s work for the CIA to Rubner just so you could keep getting his intelligence.”

Tibor interjected, “Now, wait a minute. .”

“Keep your fucking mouth shut, you little shit!” Will stared at each man. “Your treachery has given you life imprisonment with zero chance for parole. Every second you have in the facility will be hell. And it’s going to be made worse by something I’m about to tell you that you don’t know. Rubner was deliberately planted in New York so that people like you could approach him. But he was no longer working for Mossad. Instead he was working for a private individual who desperately wanted to identify a serving SVR who was on the payroll of the CIA. You played right into his hands.”

The director pointed at them. “We can forgive you for being taken for fools by Rubner and his boss, but handing over Yevtushenko’s identity without SSCI approval is automatic big jail time.” He glanced at Will before returning his stare to the Flintlock officers. “And jeopardizing the life and the family of our best intelligence officer means you’re going to die in there.”

The Flintlock officers looked ashen, petrified, and confused. Tibor said, “We. . we can make amends. Make a public apology. . Just let us go quietly.”

Will lifted the crutch off the table and placed the end of it against Tibor’s chest. “Your best hope is that one of the prison guards takes pity on you and slips you a length of rope.”

Mikhail’s face screwed up in pain as he put his feet onto the floor, grabbed his crutches, and forced his body out of the hospital bed. Though they would be distraught that he was injured, he hoped his wife, Diana, and their two girls, Tatyana and Yana, would laugh if they could see him now-wearing pajamas and slippers, his hair ruffled. He put some coins into a pocket and hobbled out of his room. A sweat broke out over his body as he tried to ignore the pain that was searing up his leg into the base of his spine.

He moved along the corridor, past rooms containing Mark, Laith, and Adam. Aside from medical staff and armed Dutch police officers, no one else was allowed in the hospital wing. The injured DSI operatives had been taken to another facility, where they were not only receiving treatment but also being questioned as to what had happened during the flight.

A nurse approached him, her expression quizzical and angry. In English, she said, “You shouldn’t be walking. What are you doing?”

Mikhail stopped. “I need to call my family.”

“You know what the police told you. No calls to. .”

“The police,” Mikhail said softly, his breathing labored, “are uncertain what to make of this situation and have put in place procedures that make no sense.” He patted a hand against his leg. “We’re hardly a threat to anyone.”

“It’s for your own protection.”

Mikhail sighed, felt weary. “Please. I need to speak to my daughters.”

The nurse looked unsure.

“I just want to tell them I’m okay.”