Ghosts

“Callan.” It was Pope; his voice was quiet and hoarse. Milton turned to look and saw that he had managed to raise his bruised face. “What are you doing?”

“Control’s orders,” Callan said, his gun arm unwavering. He was only six feet from Milton; it would have been impossible for an amateur to miss from that range, and Callan was not an amateur.

“What orders?”

“He needs to be gone.”

“Take him into custody. You don’t need to shoot him.”

“Be quiet,” Spenser snapped.

Underwood approached from behind and drove his boot into the back of Milton’s knees. His legs folded and he fell forward, bracing with his left arm. Pope fell down with him, Milton’s looped right arm preventing him from falling face first into the snow.

Milton felt calm. He had faced the prospect of death for most of his adult life and he was accustomed to it. It was a possibility that he had accepted; the long-term prognosis for agents working for Control was not good. Milton did not know the average, but he did know that plenty of men and women had been killed in duty in the time he had been in the Group. He had managed to avoid the same fate thanks to a combination of careful pla

“It’s alright,” he said. “Do what you have to do.”

He closed his eyes. The snow had quickly chilled the muscles in his calves and thighs and it was was working up his spine. He breathed in and out and thought about the last six months: the long trek through South America, the time he had spent in San Francisco. Saving Caterina Morena. Meeting Eva. He had helped people. His account was far from being settled. It was still soaked in the blood that he had spilled, but he had started to make recompense. It was not his fault that he had not been able to do more. He had simply run out of time.

“Callan…” Pope was protesting weakly.

“It has to be done.”

“Of course it doesn’t.” The anger put a little of the steel that Milton remembered back into his voice.

“Enough, Pope,” Spenser spat.

Milton opened his eyes. Callan had taken a step away from him: pitilessly professional, sizing up the shot.

Pope was on his hands and knees, struggling to push himself upright. Spenser intercepted him and kicked his arms away. “You too, I’m afraid. Control doubts your loyalty. And you’ve already seen too much.”

Milton saw the satisfaction in Callan’s handsome, cruel face as he racked the slide to cock the hammer, chambering the top round in the magazine. He had seen it before, in a church hall in the East End of London. Callan was a killer, pure and simple. Each of Milton’s kills had scoured away a little more of the humanity that was left in his soul. Each had been a cause of the most exquisite regret, especially latterly, but Callan was different: he found pleasure every time he pulled the trigger or used his knife or his garrotte. He took pleasure in his job. In that sense, he was the perfect agent. No wonder he was Control’s favourite new creature. He would go far.

Callan straightened his arm and aimed at Milton’s head.

He knew with certainty that there would be no successful appeal to his better nature.

He closed his eyes again and waited.

He heard the crunch of snow.

The shot didn’t come.

Milton paused, holding his breath, wondering why he could still feel the cold working its way up between his shoulder blades, feel the rough texture on the inside of his gloves, the cold breath of winter on the patches of bare skin around his eyes and mouth.

He opened his eyes.

Callan wasn’t there any more.

He rubbed the snow from his eyes and looked. It looked as if a patch of the deep white drift at the side of the drive had detached and risen up. Snow and ice fell away, revealing the figure of a woman dressed in a makeshift ghillie suit. She was twenty feet away. He saw a parka with a mesh across the opening and shaggy threads sown across it in horizontal lines to break up its outline, similarly adorned waterproof trousers and chunky boots. Her face was visible within the loop of the fur trimmed hood.

Beatrix Rose.

She had two throwing knives, one in each hand.

Callan had fallen backwards and now he was facing straight up. Her first knife was buried in his throat. The knife was made of a single piece of steel. His carotid artery was severed and his still beating heart spent its terminal beats spraying aortal red blood across the dirty snow.

Milton’s head snapped around just as Beatrix flicked out her right arm and sent her second knife on its way.

Blake’s padded jacket seemed to absorb the knife, the blade disappearing into his gut, the impact and the surprise sending him staggering backwards, his hands clutching at the grip.

Spenser got a shot off but the bullet went wide, ricocheting off the wall of the dacha.

Milton crawled across the gritty snow, pressed right down into it, until he reached Callan’s body. He still had his Sig in his hand. Milton took it.

Hammond raised her rifle and fired an unaimed spray towards Beatrix. The bullets peppered the trees and the ground behind her, a dozen little explosions of snow jagging backwards. Beatrix ducked behind a tree, out of sight.

Hammond wasn’t looking at Milton. He shot her in the right temple, her head jerking hard to the left as she fell to the ground.

Underwood saw him shoot and brought up his rifle but Milton was quicker with the Sig and put two shots into his gut.

Spenser was last man standing. He turned and started to run but Beatrix's left arm flicked out again and her third knife caught him in the thigh. His leg went out from beneath him and he collapsed sideways into a drift of snow. He scrabbled around so that he was facing back towards them.

Milton aimed at him with the pistol. “Drop it!”

He flung his weapon aside and raised his hands. “Don’t shoot,” he called out.

Beatrix came out from behind the tree and stalked through the drift towards him.

“On your knees,” Milton yelled back. “Hands on your head.”

“My leg,” he said. “I can’t… my leg…”

It was moot: Milton might have been clement but Beatrix was not so inclined. She reached down to the bandolier that was hidden beneath the ragged strands of the ghillie suit, a leather strap that stretched diagonally across her chest, with half a dozen sheathes spaced across it, and took out another knife. She knelt down in the snow and spoke to him quietly; Milton couldn’t make the words out. He protested. She ignored him, stepped around, slid the fingers of her left hand into his hair and yanked back, exposing his neck. She drew the knife across his larynx, opening his throat, the razor-sharp blade severing his trachea. His fingers clutched at the gruesome rent, helplessly trying to close it even as it gaped open and closed with the frantic up and down of his head. His hands slicked red, his body toppled backwards, hinging at the waist, his torso thudding back into the drift, the abundant blood drenching the snow a bright crimson.

Jesus, Milton thought.

“Is that it?” she called out.

He hurried back to Pope and helped him up. “Are you alright?”

“Who’s that?”

Beatrix was over Spenser’s body. She wiped the bloodied blade on his jacket and slid it back into its sheath.

“You don’t know her,” Milton said.

“Who?”

“Her name is Beatrix Rose. She used to be Number One.”

Chapter Forty-Four

Milton hauled Pope into the back of the Tiger. It was an All Terrain Armoured Transport, much like an American Hummer. The benches behind the driver’s and passenger’s seats had been cleared from the interior and Milton pulled Pope all the way inside, reaching back to close the rear door. Beatrix had climbed into the front and turned over the big turbocharged diesel. The locals were up at the gate and the blue and red lights of a police car flashed against the sides of the buildings down the hill.