“Fuck.”
Nikolas turned to Ben. “Diversion.”
“Fire.”
They pulled bottles of whisky off the shelves and broke them over straw from the wine crates. Silently, they went up the steps to the door that led out into the spacious hall. They pushed their alcohol-soaked straw against the wood, opened the door a crack and set it all alight. Swiftly, they ran back into the hidden passage, closed the fake wine rack over the gap, and went up and into the priests’ hole, emerging in the bedroom. By the time they made it to the gallery landing overlooking the hall, there were shots and the sound of men’s footsteps. They peered through the banister to see two men trying to put out the fire. It was the work of moments to dispatch them both with silenced shots to the head and chest.
It was time to turn from the defensive to the offensive. Ben felt something move deep within his belly—some final barrier to feeling he’d erected to protect himself. He rested his forehead on Nikolas’s. “I— Damn it! I want to tell you that I love you, but I can’t bloody well say it. I’ve never said it to anyone.”
“And I have never heard it from anyone. But one day, I would like to hear it from you. Stay safe, Benjamin.” They rose and ran down into the hallway.
§§§
Ben was shot in the thigh and went down, but he rolled behind a large clock for cover, waving Nikolas on into the drawing room. Nikolas went down, and for a minute Ben’s heart almost stopped, but he saw the other man come out of the roll and begin shooting. Usama was behind the smouldering door to the basement. Ben sent a volley of shots towards him and made to follow Nikolas, but another bullet caught him in the shoulder, chipping the bone. He went down, saw Usama move into a better position, brought up his gun and shot him dead. In incredible pain, he pulled himself up and limped into the drawing room, flattening himself behind the door. Nikolas was kneeling by a bloodied body.
Ben scanned the room with his gun sight. Nikolas said, “Allouni’s not here.”
The dead man at Nikolas’s feet had been shot execution style. “Is it…?” Nikolas shook his head and flicked his eyes over to a couple by the Christmas tree. Ben instantly recognised the man holding Philipa. He was smaller and oddly balder than he looked on television.
Suddenly, they heard a car. Nikolas left the dead body and they went to the door, Ben now struggling, dragging his leg. Ibrahim Allouni was reversing one of the Range Rovers, hitting other cars as he tried to turn. Nikolas and Ben laid down fire, but the vehicle’s strengthened sides and windscreen resisted their firepower. Suddenly, the car shuddered to a halt. It had hit the body of the dog, and the driver, obviously used to driving automatics, stalled the vehicle. Ben ran to one side, Nikolas to the other, and before Allouni could pick up his weapon, he had a muzzle pressed to his temple. He smiled slightly and laid his head back against the headrest, turning to look at Ben. “Mr Rider. I believe you now owe me another relative. Do you have another house I can burn?” His eyes flicked to Ben’s trigger finger, a smirk playing on his lips. “I have diplomatic immunity, as you are very well aware.” He saw something in Ben’s expression and added hastily, his guttural accent now mangling his English, “We come to an arrangement here, no? I am very powerful, wealthy…”
Nikolas spoke for the first time behind Ben’s shoulder. “We might need the money, Benjamin. Do not dismiss this offer lightly.”
Ben frowned, not taking his eyes off his target. “Why do we need—?”
Nikolas leant around him and shot Allouni in the face. “To pay for cleaning the leather.”
It was only as he watched Allouni’s body falling, bloodying the cream leather, that Ben realised it was snowing, and he could hear the faint sound of fireworks in the air. He tipped his head back and caught some flakes on his tongue. Nikolas watched him for a moment then said ironically, “Happy New Year, Benjamin.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Ben didn’t see Nikolas again for two months. He had surgery on his leg and shoulder and was in a cast recuperating, yet again, in another ridiculously expensive hotel. This one was in the country with a view of the sea. He wasn’t sure if Sir Nikolas bloody Mikkelsen was being ironic in this choice, but as he never made contact, he couldn’t be asked.
At the end of two months, Ben was declared fit for action and released back to the department’s own physios. He immediately skipped the first scheduled session and went for a long run, tears streaming down his face at the pain everywhere but remembering that agony was, apparently, his dream.
The second day, he went into the office. The head of the department was now temporarily a secondment from the less secretive, main Intelligence Agency. Ben had an hour’s interview without coffee, during which he was unable to ask about Nikolas. As soon as it was over, however, he sought out the typing pool, the quaint name retained for the now highly sophisticated computer services department, and a woman there he had once dated. Kate knew all the useful and interesting information he needed. Nikolas was on extended leave of absence; he’d not resigned, but was considering his options.
Ben guessed the cards had finally fallen for Nikolas Mikkelsen.
He was angry, numb, furious, and confused. He was sick to his stomach that it appeared he wasn’t needed now in the aftermath of the shadow dance. This left him in something of a dilemma. He didn’t want to work for a new boss. He wasn’t all that sure he wanted to work in this business at all anymore. He had a moment of clarity about what he did want though and used his charm with Kate once more to find out an address. The next day, he recovered his bike from storage and headed back to the country.
He found the small cottage easily and sat outside, secluded in some trees until he saw a car leave. He removed his helmet, swung off the bike, and approached the house. Tim Watson answered the door in familiar corduroy and crumpled cotton. His eyes widened behind new glasses. “Christ! Jaime! You’re dead!”
Ben laughed. “People have a habit of thinking that and being wrong. How are you?”
Tim’s eyes were still wide. Suddenly, he remembered his manners and waved Ben in. “You’ve just missed John. He had a lecture.”
Ben pretended not to know this and not to have arranged this visit for that very reason. Tim, he noticed, not only still showed the faint traces of a severe beating, but he also walked with a slight limp. “I’m sorry, by the way, for how it all worked out.”
Tim waved a hand in denial. “I’m the one who should apologise. I had no idea. Christ, I’ve had the police here—Special Branch. People I’m not even surearepolice—questioning me, questioning John. It’s been a nightmare.”
“How are your badgers?”
Tim laughed and sat heavily at the kitchen table, gesturing for Ben to do the same. “Oh,theyare just fine. Not a hair on their bloody snouts has been damaged. While I’ve had swelling on the brain. I still can’t—Never mind. Anyway, I’m thinking of concentrating on human rights from now on.”
Ben nodded. “Make sure you are on the side of the angels, Tim. Know who the good guys in this world are.”
“Like you?”
