Scott Mariani - The Doomsday Prophecy

‘Maybe I can convince you to have your people stand down,’ Ben said. ‘Then I’m going to take her out of here, and you’re going to come with us so you can tell me what’s going on.’

‘I just follow orders. Slater’s the guy you want.’

‘I’ll get to him in good time,’ Ben said. ‘But I think you know plenty. Maybe we’ll get to try out that truth serum on you.’

‘You are so fucking dead, Hope.’

‘Not before you. Now move.’ Ben shoved him down the corridor.

In the lift, Jones pressed the button for the second floor. Ben slipped the kitchen knife into his bag and kept one of the Berettas aimed steadily at the agent’s head.

The doors whirred open. Ben grabbed Jones’s wrist and bent it up sharply behind his back. He shoved him out of the gap, keeping the gun on him. They stepped out into the white corridor. The smell of fresh paint lingered in the air. The whole upper floor had been redecorated, but in a hurry.

‘What’s up here?’

‘Just the girl,’ Jones said. ‘And twenty agents. You haven’t a chance in hell.’

‘I’ve been taking chances in hell most of my life,’ Ben said. ‘Shut up and walk.’

Jones walked slowly, breathing hard and sweating from the pain in his arm as Ben kept it within half an inch of breaking. Up ahead, the corridor bent round to the left. Ben quietly thumbed off the safety on his pistol, every muscle tight, watching everything. He felt Jones tense, and he knew they were close. He let go of Jones and drew the second Beretta.

They rounded the corner. Ten yards away the corridor came to a dead end at room thirty-six. Between them and the door stood three agents, two men, one woman. They saw him standing there with Jones and pulled their guns. Suddenly the corridor was filled with yelling.

Ben remembered them from before, especially the woman. Her auburn hair was tied back under a baseball cap. The 9mm she was holding looked oversized in her small hands, but she knew what she was doing with it. Her blue eyes were locked hard on to his. He tried to read the look on her face.

He moved towards them, using Jones’s body as a shield, his left pistol hard up against the base of the man’s skull and his right aimed down the corridor at the three guns pointing back at him.

‘I just want Zoë,’ he yelled. ‘Then it’s over.’

He moved closer. Five yards. He felt the blood pulsing through his temples. The agents’ faces were tense, nerves frazzling. Fingers on triggers, muzzles steady. One slip, one shot, and nobody would escape the frenetic exchange of bullets at such close range.

‘Step away from him and lay down the weapon!’ one of the men shouted.

Ben saw the flicker in his eyes at the same instant he sensed the sudden movement behind him. He reacted a fraction too late. It all happened at once. A powerful hand grabbed his left arm and jerked his gun away from Jones’s head. At the same time a fist slammed sideways into his ear, and his vision exploded in a flash of white light. Jones scrabbled out of his grasp. A volley of silenced gunfire, bullets tearing down the corridor all around him. A searing impact to his left shoulder as he felt a 9mm round punch deep into the deltoid muscle.

Something to worry about later. He fired point-blank at the agent who’d attacked from the rear. The guy crumpled. Ben caught him as he fell, spun him around and felt the impact as bullets thwacked into the man’s body. But he was caught off balance and the dead agent crashed to the floor on top of him, knocking the pistol out of his left hand. As he struggled to kick the corpse off him he glimpsed Jones running away back down the corridor, heading for the lift.

The three agents were moving forward, guns extended, aiming right at him. The woman’s face was steely.

Impossible odds. Three guns against one. There was no way he could bring them all down before they got him. Lying on his back he punched out the Beretta one-handed and fired, taking down the man on the left. Swivelled his sights across in a blur.

Too late. He could see the other man’s finger already taking up the slack on the trigger. Their bullets would cross in the air. He was dead.

Then everything changed.

The woman stepped back, twisted to one side and put a bullet between the shoulder blades of the agent next to her. His mouth burst open. The gun dropped from his hands. He went down on his face.

Then silence. Just the two of them left alive in the corridor.

Ben got to his feet, eyeing her warily. His shoulder was on fire, his heart racing. He blinked the sweat out of his eyes and raised his weapon one-handed at the same instant she trained hers back on him.

They circled each other for a few moments in a silent standoff, pistol muzzles almost kissing. He was aware of the blood running freely down his left arm and dripping fast from his fingertips, the soft plop of the drops splashing onto the floor the only sound in the smoky corridor.

‘Put it down,’ he said.

‘You put yours down,’ she replied in a tight voice.

‘Everyone’s dead. It’s just you and Jones.’

‘Who the hell are you, Ben Hope?’

‘Just someone looking for Zoë Bradbury.’

‘You want to get her out of here? So do I.’

‘Show me.’

She bent down, very slowly, and laid the gun on the floor. Then stepped back and watched him. ‘See? I’m on your side,’ she said. ‘Trust me.’

He kept the gun on her, frowning and confused. ‘Who are you? Why are you doing this?’

‘I’m Alex Fiorante, CIA. I’m not one of them.’

‘Could have fooled me, Alex.’

‘These people aren’t regular Agency. They’re some kind of rogue unit.’

He was quiet for a moment, breathing hard, still aiming the gun at her. ‘Where’s Zoë?’

She pointed. ‘Right behind that door. You want to get her out? Then let’s do it. We don’t have a lot of time.’

‘I want to know what’s going on,’ he said.

‘I’ll tell you everything I know. After.’

He squatted down and scooped up her fallen pistol. Every movement of his left arm was agonising.

She watched him tuck her pistol in his belt. ‘You can trust me, I swear.’

‘Maybe I will,’ he said. ‘But I don’t think we’re there yet. Open the door.’

Alex kneeled down next to one of the dead agents and rolled the heavy corpse over with a grunt. She reached into his inside pocket and came out with a key, her fingers stained with the man’s blood. She wiped the blood on his clothes, walked the two steps to the door and unlocked it.

‘You first,’ he said. She stepped inside and he followed her, holding the gun to her back and looking around him at Zoë’s prison.

It was empty.

Then he heard the whimper from under the bed. He pushed Alex against the wall. ‘Don’t move.’ He squatted down and peered under the bed.

For the first time in nearly twenty years he was finally face to face with Zoë Bradbury. Unlike the happy, smiling young woman in her photo, her face was pale and thin from nearly two weeks of incarceration. She shrank away from him with a look of terror.

‘Zoë, I’m a friend.’ With the rising agony in his shoulder it was a struggle to keep his tone soft and reassuring. ‘My name’s Ben Hope. I’ve come to rescue you. Your parents sent me.’

She shrank further away, back against the wall.

‘Come on out,’ he said. ‘I’ll take you home. It’s over.’

She wouldn’t come out. He had no time to mess about like this. Jones was still in the building. Ben grabbed the steel bed-frame and slid it away from the wall on its castors. He reached down and grasped her arm. She squealed with fright.

‘Look, I know you’ve been through a lot,’ he said. ‘I know how you’re feeling. But you need to co-operate with me.’ He jerked her to her feet, and she stared at him in bewilderment. Then she caught sight of Alex Fiorante across the room and started wriggling to get free of his grip. ‘She’s one of them!’