Scott Mariani - The Sacred Sword

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.

Ben found Penrose Lucas sitting alone in the semi-darkness of the wrecked dining room. He was slumped in a leather chair and seemed to be in a trance, staring fixedly into space and barely responding as Ben walked into the room and flipped on the main lights.

Ben stood a few yards away and watched him, noticing how dishevelled and dismal the man looked in his grimy dressing gown and underpants. He was a far cry from the self-confident, immaculately dressed professor Ben had seen on the videotape at the vicarage.

So here he was, face to face with Simeon’s enemy.

Resting on the arm of Penrose’s chair was a large, shiny handgun. Ben stepped quickly over and scooped it up. Penrose made no response. Ben jacked out the cartridge in the chamber, dumped the magazine, separated the slide from the frame and tossed the bits into the far corner of the room.

The sound of metal components clattering across the floor seemed to snap Penrose out of his trance. He turned slowly to look up at Ben. The glazed eyes focused with recognition.

‘You’re him,’ he murmured. ‘You’re Hope.’

‘In the flesh,’ Ben said.

‘Where are my men?’

‘They can’t help you any more,’ Ben said. ‘Your house is on fire. Did you know that?’

Penrose nodded slowly. ‘Let it burn.’ He closed his eyes for a moment, then said, ‘What are you doing here?’

‘I brought you a Christmas present.’

The mention of the word brought a scowl to Penrose’s face. ‘A what?’

Ben unslung the kit bag from his shoulder, opened it up and took out what he’d brought with him all the way from America aboard the Trimble Group jet.

Anything you require, Brown had said. When Ben had asked for the sword, the man had been quite happy to let him have it. ‘As you wish,’ he’d said. ‘Hang it on the wall or poke the fire with it. It’s the same to me.’

A keepsake, Ben had told him. Something to remember his friend by. But there was more to it.

Ben swished the sword through the air and threw it point-first at the floor at his feet. It planted itself deep into the wood with a judder. ‘There you are, professor. The sword of Jesus Christ.’

Penrose’s face contorted into a grimace and he leaned forward in his chair to stare at the sword. Until this moment, Ben had only had Brown’s word that Penrose Lucas had been behind all this. Steve Cutter’s presence in the villa was half the proof that Brown had been telling the truth. Now, as Ben saw the crazed mixture of hatred and desire in Penrose’s eyes, there was no longer any doubt.

‘This is what you wanted, isn’t it?’ Ben said softly. ‘What you murdered Simeon and Michaela Arundel for.’

A smile spread over Penrose’s lips. ‘Those cockroaches deserved what they got.’

Ben didn’t feel like wasting time talking to this man. He unholstered his pistol and clicked off the safety catch. ‘I gather you’re something of an atheist, Lucas.’

Penrose made no reply. He stared up at Ben, then at the gun. A nerve in his face twitched.

‘Fine by me,’ Ben said. ‘Then you won’t be wanting to say any final prayers before I kill you.’

Penrose’s mouth hung open in horror. He slithered out of his chair and fell to his knees on the floor. ‘No, please,’ he gasped, looking up at Ben with pleading eyes and his hands clasped in supplication. ‘I don’t want to die.’